by Louisa Trent
The barkeep's manner was direct and forthright. Seraphina liked him immediately.
“Lou is a former police detective, hon. You won't have to worry about any of the customers stepping out of line with him on duty. And he's always on duty,” Roxanne confided, rolling her beautifully expressive blue eyes at Seraphina. “The man has absolutely no life.”
“Ain't that the truth,” Lou agreed. “Rox, listen. Can you show Seraphina the dressing room while I finish setting up?”
“Sure, Lou. Walk this way, hon.”
Seraphina knew she couldn't walk that way even after a million years of dance lessons; her hips just weren't made for slow and sexy undulations.
The small dressing room was festooned with pink-feathered costumes: hanging from hooks on the walls, flung over chairs, folded neatly in the wardrobe. There were also quite a few cute pictures of flamingos on the walls. Without meaning to, Seraphina's thoughts returned to India, where real live flamingos had nested in a stream near her mission school. She would often spend quiet time alone there by the water, sitting on the riverbank, bare feet dangling in the muddy stream, watching the beautiful wading birds as they fished. She could still remember how the birds’ stick legs wobbled against the current, their long, flexible necks dipped low, their bills submerged in the brown river.
Not all of her memories of India were mournful; some were really quite lovely.
A sharp stab of pain pierced her heart. She welcomed it; the ability to feel pain at least signified that she was still alive.
“It's generous of you to show me around, Miss True,” Seraphina said politely.
“It's just plain Rox, hon. And generosity has nothing to do with it. I remember my first day here as though it was yesterday. I was so scared, I thought I'd throw up on stage. Dancing in front of a crowd takes some getting used to. What I learned to do is to tune everything out but the music.”
Seraphina smiled. “That's what I do too, Rox.”
“And this place ain't so bad. Lou really does keep the order around here and Tommie is great to work for.”
“You know Tomas Ruiz?”
“We go way back, Tommie and me. He's one of the good guys. I understand he's the one who sent you over for the job. Though, if you don't mind my saying so, you don't seem like Tommie's type.”
Seraphina laughed. “That's because I'm not! Tomas doesn't like or even approve of me.”
“That doesn't sound like the Tommie I know. He's never made rash calls about people.”
“Maybe not, ordinarily. But I'm a thorn in his side. I've rented the old Monroe mansion, the one he plans on ripping down. It was my dream to rehab the house and grounds and turn the place into a music school, but Tomas Ruiz is evicting me. He doesn't think I belong on the Southside.”
“My advice to you is stay there. Don't budge. He'll come ‘round.”
Seraphina shook her head. “I don't think he will-”
“Let me tell you something about Tomas Ruiz: All that guy needs is a stead and an aluminum suit and he'd qualify as one of those old knights of yore. It's just that he's the protective type. Especially of women. He's only looking out for you, hon. The guy's a real sweetheart.”
“You're on in five,” a voice yelled at the dressing room door.
“That's Ed, the stagehand. He works lights,” Roxanne explained. “He's a real pro and can make a gal shine up there on stage, but he's a stickler when it comes to punctuality.” She gave Seraphina a reassuring smile. “Change into your costume now, hon. Use the screen over there in the corner. And when you come out, I'll give you a few pointers on how to keep your audience interested.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Ruiz Construction,” Myra grumbled into the telephone receiver after what Tomas thought was a remarkably swift pick-up.
“Yeah, I know who this is and this better be good, Lou, ‘cause you just interrupted me during the most important part of my day.” She tapped her fingers on the newspaper she'd been reading. “Okay, okay. Don't get your silk boxers in a twist. I'll tell him.”
His administrative assistant cradled the receiver on her shoulder. “It's Lou calling from The Flamingo. Says Seraphina Norris just walked in for her two o'clock audition. Says she's got her own costume and music and everything. Says he wants to know what gives.”
Myra folded her arms over her barrel-chest. “So do I. Start talking, mister.”
Tomas mouth gaped. “I never figured her for a show.”
“She's a show, all right. And as it so happens, Lou's looking to hire a new stripper. Says he's one gal short since Chi-chis left to finish hairdressing school.”
“Aw man! I forgot. But Mrs. Norris can't fill the vacancy. The woman's a missionary! What does she know about exotic dancing?”
“Not much, evidently. She asked Lou if the swinging tassels came with clip-ons.”
Tomas did a twirling-point in front of his hard pecs. “These kind of swinging tassels?”
“You've got it.”
He covered his face and groaned. “Damn! I've messed up but good this time.”
“Nothin’ that can't be fixed,” Myra offered.
“Tell Lou I'll be right over.”
* * * *
“Where is she?” Tomas asked, racing through The Flamingo's hot-pink doors.
Lou glanced up from polishing the taps at the chrome bar. “You talking ‘bout Seraphina Norris?”
In an effort to find his cool, Tomas took a deep breath.
It didn't work. “Who the fuck else do you think I mean?”
The unflappable Lou stopped polishing. “Seraphina Norris is in the dressing room with Rox, changing into her costume. And what the hell is up with you?”
“This is a mistake, Lou. I never should've set this thing up.” Tomas rubbed the back of his neck. “I don't want her working here. Seraphina Norris is a former missionary,” he whispered, looking around and barely mouthing the last word.
Lou's jaw dropped. “No shit? Takes all kinds, I guess. Gotta say, though, I knew there was something different about her. That's why I called.”
“I'm glad you did. The woman knows nothing, Lou.”
“Well, man, she's here now and it looks like she wants to learn. It's not like it's the end of the world her dancing here. She'll be okay. I'll keep my eye on her. Look out for her. Take care of her. How's that?”
“She's not working here.”
Lou slapped his cloth on the bar. “Why the hell not? The Flamingo's respectable, and so is the salary. Seraphina Norris seemed strapped, eager to make some fast cash. Why shouldn't she work here?”
“She's only strapped cuz she's got this half-assed idea about turning the Monroe mansion into a music school. That's why she's moonlighting, to fix up the place. But she ain't gonna need the extra cash, cuz I'm tossing her out of there.”
“Nice move,” Lou said, in a jaded tone, as though he'd heard it all, seen it at all, and nothing surprised him any more. “She got a puppy dog you can kick?”
“Don't look at me like that, ese. I got my reasons for wanting her to put a change of address card in with the post office.”
“Everybody's got reasons.”
Tomas played with a bar menu. “The place is unsafe-”
“So's the world, my friend. You're in construction. Make the house safe.”
“There's more to it than that. I'm trying to correct the problem but-”
Tomas would say no more. They were pals, but Tomas never forgot that Lou was a former cop, strictly straight, everything up and up, everything done by the book. Not the best way of handling dope dealers.
“Do me a favor, Lou. Just don't hire Seraphina Norris on as a stripper. She's not right for the job.”
Lou's eyes narrowed to slits. “I don't know where you get off, Ruiz, telling me how to manage The Flamingo. I run a decent establishment here. You want me to resign, just say the word and I'm out the door.”
“No, I don't want you to resign! I depend on you, and I don't want to interfere with your o
peration, but so help me, if Seraphina Norris gets up on that stage and a guy so much as leers at her, or touches her elbow, I'll-” Tomas crumbled the drink menu he was holding into a ball.
“So that's the way it is, eh?”
“Yeah, that's the way it is, Lou.”
The Flamingo's manager fingered his gray silk tie. “We're not the only bar in town. If she's tapped out, who's to say she won't try some other club? And you and I both know, firsthand, some of those other places are pretty raw even by our somewhat tarnished standards. They're covers for prostitution and drugs. You want her working there, instead?”
“Give her a waitress job,” Tomas quickly interjected.
“Yeah. Right. I'll do that. I'll offer her a singing waitress job. How's that?”
“Why not? She could do burlesque numbers. Show tunes. I've heard her sing. She's got the voice.”
Lou paused, thinking. “It would add class to the place, I suppose.”
Just then, the woman they were discussing entered center stage, right, wearing a sari, the shimmering material several shades darker than her golden brown hair.
Tomas couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Thankfully, his legs still worked and so didn't his quick reflexes; he used both to dive for the shadows.
Backing up to the exit, he hissed, “Psst. Lou!”
The Flamingo's manager, engrossed by what was happening up on stage, didn't look back. “Huh?”
“Do not tell Seraphina Norris I was here.”
“Okay,” the manager agreed, but distractedly.
“You listening, ese?”
“I'm all ears.”
“Then hear this: If that woman unwraps a single inch of that shimmering stuff she's got on, I won't be held responsible for my actions.”
That got Lou's attention. “We've been business associates for five years now, Tomas, and I've seen some gorgeous ladies walk in and out of your life without you blinking so much as an eye. This is the first time you've ever let a woman get to you.”
The manager played with his gold cufflinks while he deliberated the change in his partner and friend. “Okay,” Lou decided. “I'm not pretending that I like your interference, but you must have your reasons. What do you want me to say to her? She's already up on stage.”
“I don't care what you say. Tell her anything. Make it up,” Tomas whispered as he tiptoed out the door, all the time thinking: Fuck, she's beautiful. And, No way is she ever wearing pink feathers in front of a drooling male audience.
* * * *
The next day, wanting to survey his new property, Tomas parked his truck at the bottom of Monroe hill and made his way up and down and through the overgrown paths on foot.
How could he blame Seraphina for wanting to hang onto the house?
He couldn't. The hilltop location was an ideal spot for a school. He could just imagine the musical notes of student musicians echoing through the trees. And as sound carries on water, everyone up and down the riverfront would get serenaded on hot summer nights. It was kind of a nice thought.
While he was thinking that nice thought, somehow Tomas found himself back once again at the bottom of the mansion's rickety stairs. Unable to help himself, he climbed the steps and knocked at the rusted screen door.
One rap, then two. The third time his knuckles came down, instead of the lady grilling him with a, ‘Who the hell is it?’ as she should've done, Seraphina Norris called softly, “Come in!”
This really pissed him off but good.
“Why isn't that back door locked?” he asked, entering the kitchen and finding the music teacher on all fours, a soapy brush in her hands.
Seraphina continued her floor scrubbing. “Because it's the middle of the day,” was her explanation, which was no explanation at all.
“It might be safe in the middle of the day where you come from, but this here is the Southside, and it's not safe here any time of day. You keep your doors locked at all times, and don't let anyone inside unless you know who it is.”
“I assumed it was you,” she said, sliding back onto the back of her legs. “A day doesn't go by without one of your friendly visits.” Raising an arm, she pushed a strand of golden brown hair back from her forehead.
Tomas had never seen a sexier sight than Seraphina washing her floor. Or a sight more infuriating. Why was she even bothering? The kitchen floor needed to be ripped up. The whole house needed to be gutted. What the hell was she doing washing the damn floor on her hands and knees?
His balls tightened. “Get up,” he growled.
Her green eyes went huge. “Pardon?”
She had to get up! In that position, there was only one thing on his mind, and it had nothing to do with clean floors and plenty to do with the way his dick was prodding his zipper.
“Get up,” he ordered again.
He followed the bellowed command with a strident step toward her. And still she stayed right where she was. Did the woman have no freakin’ sense?
He reached for her.
“I don't want you scrubbing a floor or your hands and knees ever again. Got that?” he asked and yanked her to her feet.
“When a floor is dirty, one washes the dirt away,” she said evenly.
Now, she decided to get logical? She was living in an abandoned building, where was the logic there?
He scowled at her and at her logic: no woman should ever wash a floor on her hands and knees, and never anywhere near a man's erection. Yeah, she was nice, but she'd been married! Hadn't she seen the hard bulge in his jeans? Couldn't she read the signs? The woman was making him fucking berserk!
He said through clenched teeth, “Use a damn mop. You do own a damn mop, don't you?”
“Of course, I own a...a darn mop. It's right over there,” she said pointing to the utility closet.
“Get it.” He watched her lush hips sway their way there; dropped his eyes when she made her way back.
“I'll finish the floor,” he said, taking the mop from her hand, still carefully keeping his sights averted.
Her nipples. Man, her nipples! They were jutting through the worn cotton of her dress. A woman with a sensual body like that had no business looking all-innocent. He knew she'd been a missionary, he knew she was nice, but five years of marriage had to have taught her something about a man's desire, about the way a man physically responds when he's aroused.
Seraphina Norris had him baffled. Her body was saying CFM-come fuck me—but her lips were saying, “Thank you for the help,” when that isn't what they should've been saying at all. Maybe she wasn't doing it on purpose. Maybe she was just naturally provocative...
He looked up, just to see if were mistaken, just to make sure he was reading her right.
Big mistake. Her two chapped hands had gone to the small of her back and she was stretching like a cat, her spine arched, her tits clearly outlined under the worn material of her dress.
“Don't mention it,” he rasped, breaking out in a sweat.
“I have something else to thank you for too.”
What? For giving him a terminal case of blue ball-itis?
He stepped back, getting his dick the hell away from her until he could figure her out.
“Oh, yeah?” he asked, voice tight. “What's that?”
No tightness in her voice. She said, all bubbly and happy, “You're looking at the newest employee at The Pink Flamingo!”
“Lou hired you on as the new stripper?” he asked, knowing damn well that Lou hadn't. “Can't wait to see you take it all off, baby,” he half teased, half spoke the truth-if the strip tease was private, for his eyes only, he'd be there in the audience, front row center.
“Sorry. I get to keep it all on; I was hired as the new singing waitress. Isn't it wonderful? And I didn't even have to audition. I had my whole routine planned too. I was wearing my sari-the village women in Calcutta sold a goat in order to purchase this wonderful length of silk for me as a farewell gift-and I was about to unwrap it, slowly, as Rox advised me t
o do-”
“You didn't-” He paused, tried to think how to delicately phrase the question so as not to offend her sensibilities. “I mean, you didn't actually get-”
“Naked?” she supplied.
“Yeah. That.”
“No, I didn't. Though I was so looking forward to wearing those pasties. And the feathered G-string. Though, how one keeps that thing from riding up into one's-”
He held up a hand. “I get the picture.”
“So, I won't be doing the dirty shimmy-shake, after all. But I will be singing show tunes. Isn't that exciting?”
“Yeah. Exciting,” he said.
Relief didn't even come close to how he was feeling. He owned an adult club-no apologies. It was a sound investment, a way to get the most bang for his investment capital, which is why he'd bought the run-down bar. But because he was in the business, he knew plenty of exotic dancers and he was here to say that there was a lot of crap going on behind a stripper's too bright smile. He had a pretty good understanding of how a woman felt inside when she took off her clothes for money. It wasn't something he wanted for Seraphina Norris.
“The pay is great,” his tenant continued. “I'll only be working weekend nights, and I get to wear a conservative white blouse and a black skirt.” Her smile was angelic. “I'll tell you a little secret: I really didn't want to strip.”
“No fooling?”
“I'm quite serious; stripping just isn't me. It's not that I'm a prude, you understand, because I'm certainly not a prude.”
Tomas took in Seraphina's prim dress. “Oh, I can see that.”
“It's just that, even with the feathers, it was a little more exposure than I'm used to.”
Showing her kneecaps was a little more exposure than Seraphina Norris was used to. The lady needed a hard dose of reality. “Listen, about this school idea-”
“Yes, about the school. Tomas, have you ever wanted something so much that you found it difficult to admit it to anyone, that you even dreaded saying the words aloud for fear that your dream would disappear with the telling?”
Tomas knew all about that kind of wanting. He wanted the Riverfront Protect so much he could taste it, so much that it was the first thing he thought about in the morning and the last thing he thought about at night. He wanted that project like a junkie wants his next fix, and he'd do anything to make it happen.